5 Poems
by Allison Grayhurst

 

Without Hunger

 

I shed the skin of my appendages,

I call my name a song

and count each familiar note.

I found a friend under a chestnut tree,

needing time before declaring our bond.

I caressed a horse's upper lip

and loved him like my own.

On foot I travelled my life,

listening to secrets from the crows.

And love discovered me in the shape of a man.

In his burning depths he brought me home.

He is the flesh of my hand touching,

my waking eye and the dipping of my roots into

water. Together, we formed a child, blue

like twilight's blue, like the coat of a rippling river.

Together we come alive by her smile.

In a foreign wood the lilies bloom, the snows

of winter thawed, promises are kept and

the broken bones of passion are mended

like a piece of ancient art.

 

 

 

Break The Chain

 

Sealing in like a roof does

the house of age,

bitterness tells the time of all.

Like a toothy tiger in the greenery

blazing its look

from prey to prey, what the

years have let down flashes into the eyes

where love once reigned.

Throw the rock into the river and be fresh again.

I need to let go of the greed for security,

and trust the path I have chosen.

The caterpillar weaves then flies.

The infant wakes with a startled cry

then smiles when seeing a familiar face.

I will believe again in what voices mock.

Forgiveness renews and no one can

stop the night from ending.

 

 

 

In the centre

 

there is the blindness of the salamander

born without eyes, there is the knowing of old age

that the end must come soon and when it does, the hope

that it arrives like a gift.

 

In the centre a frog goes swimming

and people continue with the day.

There is no stopping of time, no one to lift your hurt

and make it one with their own.

 

In the centre, it is equal on either side

and all the windows are open, inviting -

a space, the place

before a dream comes true.

 

In the centre where the crisis is over though

the relief is still beyond grasp,

there is this, the surety of only one thing,

in the centre, standing.

 

 

 

It is

 

the state before the beginning

when the breath is about to be released

and faith is gaining speed.

It is the morning coffee cool enough

for the first sip, and the child's wakeful eyes.

It is the first smell of autumn and the lover's

anticipating skin.

It is the radio at midnight when the clutching claws

of awful Fate have been unarmed and the star

you wish upon is no longer a dying light.

It is where the enemy is blessed and all unspiritual fears

are let go. It is the shattering of a pattern.

It is the peace that comes when the heart

is softened and the arms are open,

trusting the life to be.

 

 

 

What Is Good

 

Wonder. Wonder

gone to the birds

to feed with the little people

and the Friday harvest.

 

            I know my vision and

            know the unaligned vertebrae

            and the horror of sinking under

            the world's dubious sands.

            Give me a gate that blesses my being,

            let summer be gone.

 

Wonder. Wonder

bake me in the wonder

of a child's first year, and

a softer way of seeking.

 

Rate this poetry.

Copyright is reserved by the author. Please do not reproduce any part of this article without consent.